


Essentially Social Chameleons

by Lolapola



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolapola/pseuds/Lolapola
Summary: In short, Aziraphale and Crowley are not as good at blending in with mortals as they think they are. There are better places to discover this than Newton and Anathema's baby's christening, but, well, we're here now.





	Essentially Social Chameleons

**Author's Note:**

> So I've fallen headlong first into the Good Omens fandom in about a week, and this is just a little scene that my brain gave me and made me laugh, so I wanted to share it with you all! Enjoy!  
> Chinese translation now available here: http://jieciyanhuodeduyisheng.lofter.com/post/1f19d335_1c61c5a42  
> Thanks to the lovely Carollin for this translation! (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carollin/pseuds/Carollin) 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I have not read the book (yet!) so this will probably only fit TV canon. Apologies for any inaccuracies.

***5 Years After The Notpocalypse***

 

In the end, it hadn’t been too difficult to explain away Crowley’s absence at the actual ceremony part of baby Alex’s christening. Aziraphale had regretfully explained to the other guests that unfortunately, his husband had been away on a business trip the night before and wouldn’t be back in time to make it to the church, but he sent his apologies and would be sure to try to make an appearance at the after party. The after party which, Newton and Anathema had assured Aziraphale and Crowley, would _not_ be held in a church, church hall, vicarage or any other location that could possibly described as holy and/or consecrated.

“Somewhere nice and neutral,” Newton had said, nervously, when he’d come down to the bookshop to deliver their invitation – and his apology – in person. Anathema’s mother, of course, didn’t really have a strong opinion either way as to the religion – or lack thereof – of her grandson. But on the other hand, Newton had explained over his cup of tea, _his_ parents were very traditional, and were desperate for any grandchild of theirs to be christened properly.  And Newton rather felt that, actually, he would quite like that as well (with Anathema’s blessing, of course).

And so Newton travelled all the way to London to come to the bookshop to explain all this to Aziraphale and Crowley and to apologise, because _obviously_ he and Anathema would like them to be there, but they realised this would be a little… _difficult_ for Crowley, and they didn’t mean it as an insult, nothing of the sort, and they were welcome to attend as much or as little –

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale had beamed, cutting off Newton’s tirade of explanations when it appeared that he would talk for as long as they would let him, “We would be _delighted_ to attend, and of course we understand that at least _some_ of the ceremony must be held in a church. I’ll come to that part, and Crowley can come for whatever soiree you and Anathema choose to hold afterwards. We wouldn’t miss it for the world! Isn’t that right, darling?”

This was directed at Crowley, who was sitting beside Aziraphale and glowering silently at Newton through his sunglasses, and had been doing so since Newton had entered the shop. He did not react to Aziraphale’s prompting. Aziraphale, used to this performance after six thousand years, was unperturbed, and turned back to Newton with an enthusiastic smile as if Crowley had delivered an emotional soliloquy on his unbridled desire to attend baby Alex’s christening.

Crowley, you understand, didn’t dislike Newton. On the contrary, he rather liked having him around. But mostly because Newton was a nervous soul, and this was a trait that increased tenfold around immortal supernatural beings. Particularly ones who glowered at him silently for minutes on end. Much to Aziraphale’s disapproval, Crowley found this hilarious.

Newton swallowed convulsively. His teacup rattled on its saucer. He forced a smile to return Aziraphale’s.

“Well!” Aziraphale exclaimed into the tense silence, clapping his hands together decisively, “That settles it! Just let us know the date and time, and where and when Crowley should join us, and we shall be there. There’s a good lad. And please give our love to Anathema!”

With that, he had expertly rounded Newton up and herded him out onto the street, and then turned on a now-openly-giggling Crowley to give him a stern talking to about not terrifying poor mortals who were Perfectly Nice and Had Done Nothing To Deserve That.

It had dissolved into an evening of their usual nonsense, and Aziraphale smiled fondly at the memory.

“What a shame Mr. Crowley had to miss the ceremony,” Mrs. Young’s voice brought him back to the present as they walked to Jasmine Cottage, where the after party was to be held.

She and Mr. Young, and the other guests who hadn’t been present on the airbase that day, were all a little fuzzy on where exactly Aziraphale and Crowley had come from. Friends of Anathema’s and Newton’s, most of them presumed, as they were newcomers to the village too. Although that didn’t explain why Adam had insisted on inviting them to his birthday parties every year since he was 11. But the residents of Tadfield found that they couldn’t dwell on the mystery for too long before their minds seemed to drift away from the subject, and they were such a nice couple that it seemed rude to ask.

Now, Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, he was dreadfully sorry to miss it,” he lied, “but, you know how it is, some things just can’t be avoided, I’m afraid. Work commitments and all that.”

Mrs. Young nodded understandingly, then frowned, a little confused.

“I must know this, but I seem to have forgotten,” she said with a laugh, “but what does Mr. Crowley do, exactly?”

Aziraphale hesitated, realising only now that he had no idea what Crowley told humans he did. Up until recently, he was pretty sure no human had ever asked.

“Well, um, you know,” he hedged, not wanting to contradict anything Crowley may have said, “this and that. Freelance work, you know. Bit of a jack of all trades, is my Crowley. Oh look, we’re here already! Pardon me, I promised I’d help Anathema and Newton set out the food – speak to you later -”

He bustled off, leaving Mrs. Young frowning after him. 

 

Crowley arrived an hour later, a carefully planned (by Aziraphale) level of lateness that both supported his business trip story but also wasn’t too rude. Crowley had made one attempt to convince the angel that literally no person at the christening was going to analyse his movements that closely, but was summarily ignored.

“Ahhh, here he is!” cried Aziraphale loudly as the front gate swung open and Crowley skulked into the garden with the air of someone arriving at their murder trial.  “Just in time for tea!”

At his husband’s expectant look, Crowley offered a thin smile and a wave to the gathered crowd. His smile briefly turned real whilst Anathema greeted him warmly – after the whole unfortunate you-hit-my-car-with-your-bike, you-stole-my-priceless-book incident, the two had unexpectedly bonded over a shared fondness for occultism and become thick as thieves, much to Newton’s dismay.

Newton himself waved timidly from a distance, clutching onto baby Alex as if he was hoping his newborn infant would be able to protect him from the demon that had just strolled into his garden.

“Lovely to see you, Mr. Crowley!” Mr. Young called cheerily. “How was your business trip?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley answered, with a hint of vague panic, having not realised he’d have to answer questions on his whereabouts, “Business-y.”

Aziraphale managed to save this interaction by chuckling heartily. The other guests joined in, somewhat relieved, and then returned to their own conversations with a practiced smoothness of escaping awkward dinner party conversations. On the other side of the garden, the (now slightly more grown up) Them watched this play out with exasperation and absolutely no intention of rescuing the situation.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale whispered crossly, “We go through all this trouble of creating a good cover story for you and you don’t even do basic research into what could feasibly entail as a business trip?”

“Hello to you too, angel,” Crowley grumbled, kissing Aziraphale on the temple, causing him to immediately forget his irritation and smile bashfully. Crowley barely had time to revel in this strong win before an older woman bustled over with a middle-aged man in a white collar in tow.

“Mr. Crowley, so glad to finally meet you! I’m Newton’s mother, Nicola. He’s told me so much about you!”

“Oh, I bet,” Crowley grinned toothily as he shook her hand.

“And this is Father Paul, he performed the ceremony on little Alex -”

Crowley was leaning forward to shake the vicar’s hand as well when his arm was suddenly smacked out of the air from beside him. There was a short pause, whilst all three of them slowly turned to stare at Aziraphale with varying degrees of bemusement (and irritation, on Crowley’s part). Aziraphale did at least have the good grace to look a little sheepish.

“Um, sorry, dear. I just, ah, remembered what the, ah, doctor said.”

“The doctor,” Crowley repeated acidly.

“Yes! About – um – physical contact.” Aziraphale turned to Mrs. Pulsifer and the vicar apologetically. “He’s just got over the most awful case of – um – scabies.”

“How terrible!” said the vicar, a little uncertainly. Mrs. Pulsifer surreptitiously glanced at her own hand with some alarm.

“Yes, terrible,” agreed Aziraphale, “he’s mostly over it now, really not a problem any more, but the doctor said, um, to avoid physical contact as much as possible for the next couple of weeks. Just to be safe.”

Mrs. Pulsifer and the vicar murmured their sympathies and bid a hasty retreat. Crowley, for his part, continued to stare at Aziraphale as if he’d just suggested they invite Hastur and Beelzebub over for afternoon tea. Aziraphale refused to meet his eyes.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said sniffily, “The man has just spent the entire morning splashing around in holy water, excuse me for being cautious -”

“ _Scabies_ -”

“I was thinking on my feet, dear, I can’t be -”

“Mr. Crowley! You made it!” Mrs Young appeared in front of them, pulling Crowley in for a hug, which he returned (to both his and Aziraphale’s surprise.)

(“She’ll regret _that_ when she hears about my horrible contagious disease later,” Crowley muttered under his breath to Aziraphale, who lovingly kicked his husband in the shin.)

 “It’s been far too long, both of you, you must visit Tadfield more often! Adam’s always talking about you, honestly. You’ll have to come round for dinner sometime soon.”

“That sounds _delightful_ ,” Aziraphale beamed, with his trademark sincerity. He held out a hand to the woman hovering just behind Mrs. Young. “And I don’t believe we’ve met, Miss-?”

“Mrs. Drew.” The woman returned his handshake warmly. “I’m a teacher at the local school.”

“She’s Adam’s English teacher,” Mrs. Young added, “I wanted her to meet you, Mr. Fell, because I’m pretty sure Adam’s love of books is entirely down to you.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said, practically glowing with pride, “l didn’t meet Adam till he was 11! No, it’s all down to yours and your husband’s parenting, I’m sure. I simply _guided_ an already present passion.”

“Well, regardless,” Mrs Drew cut in, before Mrs. Young could rebuff the compliment as well, “He’s an extraordinarily well-read young man, and he obviously looks up to you, Mr. Fell. It’s good for children to have as many positive influences as possible – takes a village, and all that. And Mr. Crowley!”

Crowley froze in the act of rolling his eyes skyward at the sheer level of _niceness_ being bandied about, and turned with extreme trepidation, trying to remember if he’d tempted Adam into not doing his homework recently.

“Yes?”

“Adam always credits _you_ for his skill in persuasive writing, so we should be thanking you too!”

Aziraphale squeezed his arm, delighted, and Crowley gave Mrs. Drew a slightly shellshocked smile. Being a good influence on someone was an extremely novel experience for him.

“So, anyway, it’s wonderful to meet you both at last, after hearing so much about you from Adam and his friends. And such positive relationship role models, as well!" she added earnestly. "How did you two meet, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all,” answered Aziraphale smoothly, and then, after the barest moment of hesitation, “We met through…work.”

“You know, I don’t think I knew that,” said Mrs. Young curiously, and Crowley noted with horror that Mr. Young, Anathema and several other guests were gravitating towards them as well. He shot Aziraphale a look of panic through his sunglasses. How had they spent so much time amongst humans lately and still not come up with a plausible “how we met” story? Aziraphale ignored him, the bastard, which Crowley thought was a little overconfident considering the scabies debacle.

“Yes,” he was continuing grandly, “We actually used to work for the same, um… _organisation_ , a long time ago, but we didn’t meet until after Crowley was...um…fired -”

“Rather spectacularly,” Crowley muttered.

“- and went to work for an, um, a _rival_ organisation. But due to the, ah, _nature_ of the work our organisations do, we crossed paths a lot. Similar…clientele, shall we say.”

He paused, glancing at Crowley, who nodded encouragingly, for once actually quite impressed at how extremely mundane and _human_ Aziraphale was making it all sound. Emboldened by Crowley’s approval, Aziraphale continued his story to the now small crowd who had now gathered. (Tadfield, like many small villages, was full of terrible gossips, and Aziraphale and Crowley were such a mysterious pair of figures that this conversation had drawn several onlookers.)

“So yes, through our work we saw a lot of each other, and even though we were working at cross purposes we became quite good friends. Which was a little, um… _risky_ , at times, since… _fraternisation_ between our two organisations isn’t – well, it isn’t really encouraged. In fact, it’s rather strongly discouraged, I’d say.”

“So…Mr. Crowley works for another bookshop?” Mrs. Young asked, sounding a little confused.

“Oh, no, no, no, heavens no,” Aziraphale answered with a chuckle, “The bookshop is my own little venture. More of a hobby, really.  Anyway, Crowley and I both had some serious reservations about some, um, business decisions our organisations were making, largely in an attempt to, ah, eliminate each other from the competition, shall we say. So we began to work together, _against_ our respective organisations, and then our respective bosses found out about that, and also our, um, _friendship,_ and, um, that was that, really.”

“So you were both fired?” Mr. Young asked, aghast.

  “Ah, no, not technically,” Aziraphale replied, “They’re both quite – well, they’re rather tricky organisations to leave, you see. So Crowley and I did some, um, negotiating, and now we’re technically still on the books, but they’ve agreed to, well, to leave us alone, I suppose. They stay out of our way and we stay out of theirs, in short.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley again as he finished, apparently oblivious to the silence that had settled over his audience. Crowley half-smiled back at him, his equivalent (at least in public) of a wide lovey-dovey grin, proud of how well his angel had re-worked the truth. Aziraphale beamed back, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Anyway,” he said to his audience, “if you’ll excuse us, Crowley hasn’t eaten yet -”

Anathema and Adam’s horrified gazes met across the garden as Aziraphale and Crowley wandered towards the house, seemingly completely unaware that every adult present was now under the distinct impression that they both worked for separate branches of some kind of London-based mafia.

The crowd dispersed after a moment, muttering uneasily to each other.

“…they just didn’t seem the _type_ …” Mrs. Young could be heard saying anxiously to her neighbour.

After a moment, Anathema gave Adam a reassuring smile and moved into the crowd, presumably to do some damage control.

“Darling, don’t forget, your scabies!” Aziraphale’s ringing and slightly pointed tones echoed down from the house, followed by a furious exchange that they seemed to think was inaudible to the other guests –

“For hell’s sake, angel, I can touch the _baby,_ can’t I -”

“You absolutely cannot, the _entire thing_ was dunked in holy water this morning -”

Adam rubbed his head tiredly in an attempt to drown out their bickering.

“Jesus Christ,” Pepper muttered from beside him, “You once levitated above the bowling green with glowing eyes and you still blend in better than they do.”

 


End file.
